


If I Knew You Were Coming (I'd Have Baked a Cake)

by standbygo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baking, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Cooking, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Sharing a Bed, The Great British Bake Off References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28263108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: John and Sherlock aren't quite sure how they agreed to hold a Great British Bake Off competition... There will be decorative bread, misuse of the French language, terrible mispronunciation of German words, fluff, bed sharing, and profiteroles.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 37
Kudos: 96
Collections: 2020 New Years Fic Exchange





	If I Knew You Were Coming (I'd Have Baked a Cake)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [disfictional](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disfictional/gifts).



> Many thanks for the prompt from disfictional, and to @otter-von-bismarck for beta-ing
> 
> Prompt from disfictional: “I'd love some Christmas/holiday fluff. I'll leave it up to you! But if you're looking for some inspiration, I love the AU idea of John and Sherlock being contestants on Great British Bake Off for the holiday special.”
> 
> Not quite an AU, but hope it suits!

Neither of them saw it coming.

John had to go down to Mrs Hudson’s flat to deliver some mail and talk about a few things, but took a great deal longer than Sherlock had expected. He went down to investigate and found them, not locked in mortal combat with an intruder, but sat in front of the television watching a show that seemed to have something to do with baking.

“It’s the Great British Bake Off,” Mrs Hudson explained. “I watch it every year. This is the Christmas special, so there’s celebrities on as well.”

“I’d never heard of it,” John said, “but it seems interesting.” In fact, he had heard of it; an old girlfriend had been obsessed with it. She had thought John enjoyed it too but he hadn’t paid much attention. She had dumped him when she caught him playing Sudoku on his phone during the finals.

“Who’s that?” Sherlock said, pointing.

Mrs Hudson squinted at the telly. “The fellow baking? Michael Sheen, he played an angel in-”

“No, not the Welshman. The man with the goatee.”

“Paul Hollywood. He’s one of the judges.”

“He’s having an affair with one of the producers.”

“Oh stop.”

“Why all this fuss about something as mundane as baking anyway?”

Mrs Hudson glared at him, but because Sherlock is Sherlock, he plunged on. “It’s just chemistry. The combination of flour and raising agents plus heat and…”

“Now look, young man. That ‘chemistry’ gets you those scones and muffins and biscuits you like so much, so mind your tongue.”

You’d think that John, having been in a war, would have a greater sense of impending doom and danger, but nevertheless he said, “But it’s just following a recipe, isn’t it? Any chump could do it. How can that be made into a competition?”

It took a while for everyone to calm down after that. Eventually the shouting and the stomping of tiny but surprisingly loud feet in kitten heels settled down, and John and Sherlock assured her that her artistry in the kitchen was greatly appreciated. This then segued into a discussion of a lack of understanding of the complexity of baking skills, plus the spirit of improvisation, time management, and creativity involved with the competition. Mrs Hudson then declared that there was only one way to make them comprehend the concept.

Somehow they agreed to it without realizing.

The rules were set. There would be three challenges, over three weekends, barring urgent cases (in which case the challenge would be rescheduled, not cancelled). Mrs Hudson, being the one most familiar with the show, would be head judge and would set the challenges. Mrs Turner, Molly Hooper, and Greg (“Who?”) Lestrade would round out the judging team. (Nobody dared suggest Mycroft as another judge in front of Sherlock.) There was discussion of each of them working in separate kitchens, but as Mrs Hudson’s kitchen was far better stocked than theirs, that would give a definite advantage. It was decided that they would both work in the kitchen of flat B, with duplicates of equipment donated by Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner. The results would be judged blind, so the doors to the kitchen would be closed until the finished product was presented.

They spent a good three days cleaning up the kitchen in preparation; Sherlock pouted through the careful packing away of his experimental equipment, while John appreciated the opportunity to give the kitchen a proper sterilization.

And so, the following Sunday, the collection of judges was seated with their drinks of choice in the lounge, and John and Sherlock were standing awkwardly in the doorway of the kitchen. (Sherlock had drawn the line at personalized aprons, and John was secretly relieved.)

**_Signature Challenge_ **

They had been informed of the subject of the signature challenge in advance, in fairness to their amateur status, and to allow them time to find a recipe of choice and name their required ingredients. Nonetheless, there was still a sense of drama in the air when Mrs Hudson stood, nodding at the friendly applause from her fellow judges. “Gentlemen, your first challenge is a relatively simple one: bread. A loaf of whatever bread you choose, but it must involve yeast, and must be decorative yet edible. You have four hours. Go!”

John and Sherlock nodded solemnly at the judges, entered the kitchen, and closed the sliding door.

“May the best man win,” John said.

“Oh please.” Sherlock said with an eyeroll.

John lifted his chin. “Don’t let’s waste time then,” he said, and turned away.

John laid down the printout of the recipe he’d found online for an easy, ‘beginners’ bread and pushed up his sleeves. Sherlock folded up his sleeves with mathematical precision, then pulled out his phone, tapped for a few minutes, then stared at the screen for a long moment.

“You’re memorizing that, aren’t you?” John said with annoyance.

“Just reminding myself of the ratios.”

“Are you only just looking that up?”

Sherlock said nothing, pressing his lips together. 

John carefully measured out the ingredients into a bowl, the heady smell of activating yeast making him crave beer. Soon enough he had a sticky mass, which he regarded doubtfully. Undeterred, he turned it out onto the table, well covered with flour, and began to knead. In no time the dough had worked its way up his forearms, drying in a prickly way on the hair there.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had gone for a more rustic approach, mixing the dry ingredients in a pile on the tabletop itself, then mixing in the yeast by hand. Eventually he too was kneading the bread, the table shuddering slightly with their combined efforts.

“Stop shoving the table across the room, Sherlock.”

“I am merely attempting to counter the force you are using.”

“Bullshit.”

“How quaint, John. Be cautious of your language around yeast – it might affect the rise.”

“Double bullshit.”

“I’m finished anyway.” Sherlock picked up the admittedly smooth, round dough and dropped it into a bowl, covering it with cling wrap and walking out of the room before John had a chance to retort. John kept kneading for several more minutes, out of pique. He didn’t like the idea of going up to his room while he waited for it to rise; not with Sherlock’s room just across the hall. So after setting his dough aside to prove, he spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to wash off his hands and forearms, then fiddling with his phone as he watched the minutes tick by.

John decided he needed to make up for the extra time kneading, so it was a little shy of an hour later when he tipped his dough out and punched it down, per the instructions. When Sherlock entered the kitchen again, John was already happily kneading again. Sherlock said nothing but turned his full attention again to his bread, having spent the last hour solving a cold case from 1962.

John formed his loaf into a roundish shape, having decided to eschew the traditional loaf pan. He stared at it for a moment, thinking that the thing was rather dull-looking, until inspiration struck. A quick forage in the fridge revealed more than enough materials for him to work with. Mrs Hudson had clearly shopped, not only for the basic ingredients they would need but also for any variations that might strike them. Rosemary, shallots, cherry tomatoes were soon on the worktop, and John lost some time with slicing them up and creating a vaguely symmetrical pattern reminiscent of a mandala on the surface of the dough.

“Very pretty, John,” Sherlock said. “Did they teach you that in the army?”

John did not dignify this with an answer.

When he finished, he looked at the result with some pride, but dismay struck when he realized how much time he had spent on the decorations; Sherlock had already left the room, leaving behind a beautifully plump rising loaf in a pan. Instead of pulling out his phone again, John spent the second rise glaring at his loaf, daring it to rise faster.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was in his room having a minor crisis. He was confident in the chemical balance of yeast, sugar and warm water, and was pleased with its rate of rise; there would be a correct ratio of air pockets and bread in the finished product. But until he saw John diligently creating an (admittedly) pleasing design on his bread, Sherlock had not considered a ‘look’ for his loaf. Embellishment would, no doubt, be taken into consideration by the judges, and Sherlock’s competitive nature had been awakened. It was too late to, for instance, recreate the Mona Lisa on the surface of his bread without looking as though he had copied the idea from John. Besides, it was nearly time for it to go into the oven. He chewed at his lip, thinking, until the alarm on his phone alerted him to the conclusion of the second rise.

But as he walked into the kitchen, he noticed the stain on the wall where an experiment had left a batch of sticky, tar-like substance behind, and inspiration struck.

While his bread baked, he quickly mixed an egg with a little water and dug around the cupboards until he found a large container of poppy seeds, which he had originally bought for an experiment (“You trying to make home-made heroin, Sherlock? ‘Cause if you are, you know I’ll kill you, right?”). When the bread came out, warm and brown, he carefully removed it from the pan, and dipped his finger into the egg mix. For another moment he hesitated, wondering what to do – he only had a very few minutes, so no time for anything elaborate. In the end, he wrote the French word for ‘bread’ into the loaf, as a tribute to his grand-mère’s birthplace. Then he carefully poured poppy seeds over the loaf, noticing with satisfaction as they stuck to the lines of egg wash and slipped off everywhere else, leaving the word plainly scribed across the top of the bread. Then back in the oven for just a few minutes until...

“Time, gentlemen!” Lestrade bellowed from the lounge.

John and Sherlock placed their respective loaves on the table and glanced at each other, shrugged, and walked into the lounge.

Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner took the honours of carrying the bread in to the judges. Mrs Hudson was clearly admiring John’s edible decorations, but Mrs Turner looked uneasy as she carried Sherlock’s. There was a great deal of clearing of throats until Mrs Hudson produced a bread knife and cut slices out of each loaf without saying a word. 

The judges huddled around each other, clearly taking this whole thing a lot more seriously than John and Sherlock had thought they would. Only brief mutterings could be heard – “lovely”, “dense”, “creative”, “delicious”, “I don’t understand”, “quite _safe_ , dear?”

Finally, the group turned back to John and Sherlock, both trying to look nonchalant. Mrs Hudson had clearly been appointed – or had appointed herself – to be the spokesperson for the group, and cleared her throat.

“Well, dears, they’re both very nice, but in different ways. This one,” and she pointed to Sherlock’s, “tastes just wonderful, light and airy, while this one,” indicating John’s, “is a bit heavy – I think it was over-kneaded and under-proved, but the decorations are just beautiful.

“So while this one is a little more dense-”

“As in, we didn’t quite break our teeth on it,” Lestrade offered helpfully. Molly giggled behind her hand.

“- we thought that the design balanced it out. So the round loaf wins this round. Whose was it?”

“Mine,” John said over some clapping from the judges. Sherlock looked a little stunned.

Mrs Turner tugged at Mrs Hudson’s sleeve a little urgently, the same uneasy look on her face. “I’m getting to it, dear,” Mrs Hudson said, a bit snappishly. “We’re just a little curious,” she said, “we don’t _quite_ understand the decoration on your loaf, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s brows knotted. “Is it not legible?” he said. “I thought it was.”

“Well, yes, dear. But why did you write ‘pain’ on it?”

Oh my God,” Sherlock snapped. “No, you uneducated fools. It’s ‘ _pain’_ – French for ‘bread’.” He glowered at Lestrade, who had burst into laughter. “Your name is _French_ , surely you could have explained to these idiots?”

“Failed it in school three years running,” Lestrade said, wiping tears from his eyes.

Sherlock didn’t come out of his room for hours, even after the judges had gone home. After cleaning up, John stood in the kitchen and looked at the two loaves for a while. He cut a bit from his own loaf, took a bite, frowned, and threw the whole thing in the bin. He made a jam sandwich from Sherlock’s loaf, and found it very nice indeed.

**_Technical Challenge_ **

The following Sunday found the judges gathered once again in the lounge, looking solemn. (John didn’t know, but Sherlock suspected that Molly had lectured Lestrade rather harshly for laughing at Sherlock, so he was overcompensating now.) Mrs Turner had returned, but even John noticed that she was choosing to sit very near Lestrade and still kept a wary eye on Sherlock.

“This week is the Technical Challenge,” said Mrs Hudson primly, clearly trying to channel her inner Mary Berry. “You haven’t been told in advance what you’re baking, and all the ingredients have been supplied for you.” She nodded at two baskets in the kitchen, covered with tea towels. “There’s also a basic recipe in there, but you are free to improvise within that. Understood?”

John and Sherlock nodded. This was a little more of a challenge than either of them was expecting, and were each wondering whether they should have backed out of this whole thing.

“Right. So today you’ll be making us a Black Forest cake.”

“Oh!” Sherlock said in recognition. “ _Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte_!”

“Pardon, dear?” said Mrs Hudson.

“ _Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte_. That’s what its proper name is, in German.”

“Shwarzz wally…”

“No, _Schwarzwälder_.”

“Schwooz waller…”

“ _Schwarz. Wälder. Kirsch. Torte_.”

“Schmooze valley keechee coosha.”

“No…”

“Oh for God’s sake. You have two hours. Go.”

Sherlock and John retreated to the kitchen. As they closed the door, they heard Mrs Hudson say, “Oh shut up, all of you, and pour me a brandy.”

Sherlock was the first to get the cover off his basket, and frowned. “Oh God. She’s bought cherry brandy. It’s supposed to be kirsch, a cherry liqueur.”

“You’ll just have to make do,” said John. “Like they did during the war. Make sacrifices.”

“Shut up.”

John read over the instructions with mounting dismay. “Christ, this seems complicated.”

“Standard chocolate sponge, soaked in kirsch, whipped cream, cherries. Hardly a challenge.”

“Have you had this before? The way it’s supposed to be?”

“Yes. I took one semester at the University of Heidelberg, where the dessert originated. You?”

“I was stationed at the base in Lahr for a while, near Frieberg, but I didn’t get into town much though.”

“You wouldn’t have liked the fare there. It’s more of a wine region than beer.”

“I like wine too, you know,” John snapped.

There was a moment of silence, then they both got to work.

John knew that on the television show, the recipes for the technical bake would be pared down to the basics, forcing the contestants to rely upon their baking knowledge to fill in the blanks. Mrs Hudson seemed to have taken pity on them, as the recipe seemed to be more or less complete. This would mean, John reasoned, that their two cakes would be similar in taste; therefore, the difference would have to be in the decoration. He started thinking ahead about how to make his cake unique.

Sherlock had silently come to the same conclusion, and was feeling his spirits wane. The competition was fun, he couldn’t deny himself, but the loss last week due to his failure in embellishment still smarted. He had to admit to himself that the ‘look’ of the product was a weakness of his – his mind was free from adornment, and so was the work he produced. To him, decoration was much like a wearing a tie with a suit – it added nothing useful and was a nuisance besides.

He was still roiling over the issue as their cakes went into the oven. As he began to whip the heavy cream, wondering if he could sculpt something on the top of the cake with the cream, he saw John breaking up a chocolate bar into a bowl and heading towards the microwave.

 _Don’t say anything,_ he thought, and yet he said, “What are you doing?”

John paused and looked back at him with a slight frown. “Melting chocolate. For the cake. You know, the cake we’re each making?”

“It’s just that-” Sherlock bit his lip and turned his back. “Nothing. Never mind.”

John shrugged and was just about to start the microwave when Sherlock burst out, “Microwaves have an irregular heat pattern which could disrupt the chemistry in the chocolate. Make it gluey. This is good quality chocolate – it would be ruined.”

John couldn’t seem to decide whether to stare at Sherlock, the bowl of chocolate, or the microwave. For a moment he wondered if Sherlock was taking the mickey, trying to throw him off; but after so many years John was getting better at detecting when Sherlock was lying. It would appear that he wasn’t, this time.

“So how do I…”

“Get a saucepan of water simmering – just a simmer, not a boil. Put the bowl over it and melt it slowly, stirring constantly.”

“Oh. Okay.” John blinked a couple more times, then closed the microwave. “Thanks.”

He was stirring the chocolate over the pot before he spoke again. “So how did you learn how to bake? Took a case in a bakery in Paris?”

“No, of course not,” Sherlock said. He laughed softly, which made John look up – Sherlock sounded a bit nostalgic, a bit wistful. “When I was growing up, we had a cook, and I had a nanny who didn’t like the cook. If I wanted to get away, I’d go to the kitchen. She’d give me things to do, keep me out of her hair, and I think to twit Nanny too.”

“That doesn’t surprise me one bit,” John said.

“You?”

John was silent for so long Sherlock wondered if he hadn’t heard, or if he was choosing to ignore the question. Then John said, “Um,” and Sherlock immediately knew it was to do with his childhood that he so rarely talked about.

“I used to make a cake for Harry’s birthday, when we were younger,” John said. His voice was so low it was nearly drowned out by the sound of the simmering water on the stove. “Mum… Mum couldn’t manage it, most of the time. And Harry wanted a cake. The first time, her fifth birthday, I just went to the store and got a packet, the kind where you just mix in water and an egg. The next year, I tried making my own. It was awful, but I got better at it over the years. They were nothing near this fancy, though.”

“That’s why you’re good at the decorations,” Sherlock said with dawning realization. “Make them nice for her.”

“Yeah. Covered up my sins, too.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort that a child who had to cover for his alcoholic mother and give his sister the birthday she wanted could not possibly constitute a ‘sin’, but then the timer rang for the cakes to come out of the oven, and the moment passed.

There was a rush to cool the cakes, make a syrup with the cherry brandy, soak the cakes in it, then carefully stack them with layers of whipped cream and sour cherries. Sherlock glanced over at John, who was busily squeezing the chocolate he had melted onto a piece of parchment paper, creating the outlines of trees. Clearly John was taking the definition of ‘Black Forest’ literally. Sherlock looked back at his own cake, where the cream looked as though it had been applied with a razor, perfectly level, but was otherwise plain.

He hummed to himself, then began to scrape long curls from a bar of rich, dark chocolate. Then he carefully arranged the curls on the top of the cake to read ‘221B’. It was still plain next to John’s trees, but Sherlock nodded with satisfaction.

“Time!” Molly called.

There was no mistaking the greedy glint in the judges’ eyes as the cakes were revealed. Sherlock could swear he heard Molly’s salivary glands activate. There was definitely more discussion this time, and clearly more than one sample taste of each cake was eaten.

John and Sherlock sat side by side on the sofa, half watching the judges, half pretending not to watch.

“I liked what you did, on the top,” John murmured. “The 221B.”

Sherlock was silent for enough time to let John think he was going to leave it at that, but then Sherlock began to speak, so softly that John had to lean forward to hear. “When I was away – I was in Serbia, I had traced the last of Moriarty’s influence there. I was trying to escape capture. There was a forest, a thick forest, and it was night, and I thought I could get away by running into it. I was running and running, and I was exhausted but I knew if they caught me it would mean torture and possibly death. And as I ran, I tried to keep myself from giving up by thinking about – here, about home. Coming home.”

John was surprised; this was the most Sherlock had shared about his time away. He had known, intuitively, that the time away had not been all fun and games, but he hadn’t realized the extent of it. “What happened?” he said at last.

Sherlock shrugged. “They caught me.”

John couldn’t breathe for a moment. “But-”

“Mycroft infiltrated the prison and got me out. He insists on taking credit for it, even though I had gotten the keys from the jailer moments before he revealed himself.”

John’s mind was a riot of questions, but before he could formulate them into coherent sentences, Lestrade’s phone trilled, and Sherlock’s head came up like a dog sniffing a treat. Neither of them really heard Molly come in and say, “Greg has to take a call, but we’ve made a decision. Both cakes are excellent, and we had a really hard time choosing, but-”

“There’s been a murder,” Sherlock said, as Lestrade came back into the lounge, tucking his phone away.

“Yup, come on, it’s a triple murder, and they think it’s a murder-suicide but-”

Both John and Sherlock had their coats on and were following Lestrade out the door before Molly could finish her sentence. They were in Lestrade’s car and in motion before John thought to say, “Oh – which cake won?”

“Oh yeah – the one that said 221B.”

“That’s yours,” John said to Sherlock.

“Who cares?” Sherlock said gleefully. “A _triple_ murder!”

**Interval**

It was a terrific case. Sherlock investigated the first body, then as he whirled around to move to the second one, John swooped in for his own investigation. Later, in an alley with the murderer trapped in a corner, Sherlock dropped at the precise moment that John aimed his gun, then took advantage of the suspect’s surprise to kick his legs out from under him. John immediately was on the man’s back, pinning him down, just in time for Sherlock to grab John’s dropped gun and hide it in his coat before Lestrade came around the corner.

It was a dance, a well-choreographed dance.

They returned home hours later, elated and exhausted. John had a perfunctory shower to get the smell of the alley off him, but was in bed and asleep before Sherlock had finished his turn in the loo.

So John was surprised to be woken, hours later, by the creak of his bedroom door and the sight of Sherlock’s sharp silhouette in the doorway.

“What is it?” he said, trying to shake the sleep off quickly. “Another case?”

“No, I – no. John, can I – may I…”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Not really. I just…”

It was so unlike Sherlock to be at a loss for words that John sat up, a different kind of alarm spreading across his body. Sherlock was in his pyjama bottoms, an inside-out tee shirt and his blue dressing gown, fiddling with its belt. “Sit down,” John said softly. Sherlock hesitated for a moment before slowly entering the room and sitting on the very edge of the bed as if it was about to explode.

There was a long, long silence, during which the only sounds in the flat were the far-away traffic on Marylebone and Sherlock’s breath.

“That was a good case,” Sherlock said at last.

“Yes,” John said with a smile and a wrinkled brow.

“We work well together.”

“Yes.”

Another long silence. John waited, and waited, somehow knowing that Sherlock had something to say, and that it was difficult. He waited so long that he began to wonder if Sherlock had already made his point and that somehow John had missed it. He was opening his mouth to ask when Sherlock burst out, “I don’t like competing with you, John!”

This was so different from whatever John had expected that he was speechless, his mouth only framing around a ‘Wh’ sound – it could have been a ‘What?’ or ‘Why?’ or ‘When?’, but Sherlock plunged ahead.

“I mean, the baking itself is fine, I don’t mind it, it’s just another kind of chemistry experiment, though I must admit that the decorations make no sense to me, and I also admit that you are better at that than I am. But it’s the competition aspect of it, pitting one of us against the other, I don’t like it, it’s like when I first came back and we weren’t speaking, we couldn’t communicate, and we still haven’t really spoken about it, and it’s like this chasm between us that’s just getting wider and wider, and on the whole I would far prefer to work with you than against you, even for something as mundane as baking a damned cake!”

Sherlock inhaled, almost dizzy with his confession, and nearly immediately began to backtrack. “Apologies, John, I spoke out of turn. Overtired, I suppose, coming down from the case. Excuse me, I’ll just-”

He began to stand, when the strong hand of one Dr John Watson grabbed his wrist. Sherlock froze, staring down at the contrast of John’s skin against his blue gown.

“Would it surprise you to hear that I have been thinking the same thing?” John said.

And they began to talk.

John talked about the loneliness he had felt after Sherlock’s faked death, and the confusion that plagued him since his return. Sherlock talked about the places he had been while he was away, and how the memories of Baker Street and living with John had sustained him. John talked more about his mother’s alcoholism, and his father’s emotional distance. Sherlock talked about growing up with a house full of staff, very few of whom wanted anything to do with a small, curious child. John talked about being shot in Afghanistan; Sherlock talked about the injuries he had sustained while he was away. John talked about when he first decided he wanted to be a doctor; Sherlock talked about discovering chemistry as a teenager.

At one point in the night, Sherlock lay down on the bed next to John and they kept talking. Then John was quiet for a long time, but Sherlock kept talking, not realizing that John had fallen asleep. He kept going until he too fell asleep, mid-sentence.

The sun was shining high through John’s window when they woke late the next morning. They had moved closer to each other in their sleep, their arms and legs tangled together. Their eyes opened at nearly the same time, gazing at each other, waiting for the other to panic, or make a joke, or bolt.

After a long time, John put his hand into Sherlock’s.

“Okay,” he said, as though he was agreeing to something already said.

**Showstopper Challenge**

The final challenge fell on Christmas Eve, and Mrs Hudson had decorated the flat with fairy lights and tinsel and greenery. John and Sherlock stood side by side again, as though on parade rest in front of the judges. They were both repressing smiles, trying to keep a multitude of secrets inside them.

Mrs Hudson cleared her throat and began. “Before we were interrupted last week, we had decided that Sherlock won the technical challenge, by a very narrow margin, I must say. That’s one victory apiece, so you’re officially tied.

“This brings us to the showstopper challenge. As you’ve already been notified, this week we would like each of you to create a croquembouche. A croquembouche is a tower of cream filled – stop rolling your eyes, Sherlock, I know you know what it is, this is for the benefit of everyone else – cream filled profiteroles, held together by caramel. You will be judged on taste and creativity in presentation. You have four and a half hours. Any questions?”

“Nope,” John said, realizing that he sounded more confident than he really ought to. Sherlock elbowed him in the side.

“All right then,” Mrs Hudson said. “On your marks, get set, _bake_!”

John and Sherlock looked at each other and gave a sharp nod, then turned and went into the kitchen. Sherlock slid the pocket door closed and turned to John with the smile that made John’s heart race.

“We’ll need to be quiet for a bit,” Sherlock said, “until they get into the champagne I left for them, then they’ll be making enough noise that we can talk without being detected.”

“Clever,” John grinned. “You ready?”

“Absolutely. I’ll start the choux pastry, you start the cream?”

“Right.”

They stood and stared at each other for a few minutes, then turned to their tasks.

As Sherlock stirred vigorously at the dough in a saucepan on the stove, John used the mixer to create a rich thick cream for the filling. “Half chocolate, half lime, we said?”

“Yes; careful not to overpower with the lime.”

“I’ll just add it a bit at a time, tasting as I go.”

“Excellent.”

Soon there were two bowls waiting in the refrigerator, and John began to curl a piece of cardstock into a cone shape. “Looks like about thirty centimeters tall – enough?”

“That means we’ll need forty profiteroles – I’ve got enough dough for at least fifty – so we can either have extras or create a higher tower.”

“I vote for extras.”

“Agreed.”

“In case some aren’t perfect too.”

Sherlock glanced away from the stove with an expression of mock dismay. “Don’t you believe in my abilities?”

“Of course I do.” John half laughed, and said, “ _’I find your lack of faith disturbing.’_ ”

“What?”

“Oh, don’t tell me…”

“Ah, a cultural reference? Tell me later. Round these off, will you?”

John, using a wet finger, smoothed the pointed tops of the dollops of choux dough, now in regimented lines on a baking sheet, each precisely the same distance apart from the next. As he finished, Sherlock would slide the sheet into the oven; as they came out of the oven they were allowed to cool slightly, then John injected them with the sweet cream from the refrigerator. Soon there was a rotating system of dough to finished product, and a pile of profiteroles on a cooling rack.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had made a caramel, the boiled sugar precisely the correct colour. “I’ll do the first few, for the top,” Sherlock said. “I’ve spilt enough chemicals on my hands, burns don’t bother me anymore.”

“Put on gloves anyway. For me?”

Their eyes met again, the world stopping, just for a moment. Then Sherlock put gloves on and set to work, while John prepared chocolate for the decorations.

“Fifteen minutes!” Molly called from the lounge.

“You guys killed each other yet?” said Lestrade.

“Shush now, let them concentrate,” Mrs Hudson said, but John and Sherlock didn’t hear them. Sherlock was entirely focused on the angel hair caramel, his large hands cradling it with enormous care, coaxing it around the tower of pastries, while John put on the finishing touches; tucking his chocolate ornaments amongst the caramel – a gun, a magnifying glass, a caduceus, an Erlenmeyer beaker, two 2s, a 1, a B.

When Mrs Hudson called, “Time!” John gazed with pride at their creation; when he looked up, Sherlock was instead staring at him with a tiny smile on his face, his eyes sparking with something John had never seen before.

“Ready?” Sherlock said.

“Always,” John said.

John slid open the doors to the lounge, to the cheers of their audience of friends. Then he turned back to Sherlock and lifted his side of the tray, and together they carried the croquembouche into the lounge.

Their entrance was met with more cheers, followed by a puzzled silence. “Where’s the other one?” Mrs Turner said, poking her head around to the kitchen.

“There isn’t one,” John said. “We did this one together.” 

Mrs Hudson’s protests of ‘against the rules’ and ‘not the way it’s supposed to go’ were quickly drowned out by the exclamations of wonder: at the beauty and structural soundness of the tower, at the airy quality of the pastries, at the smooth, rich taste of the cream, at the exquisite detail of the tiny, chocolate garnishes.

At one point, Molly noticed that John and Sherlock were standing in the middle of the room holding hands, and let out a squeak that brought any remaining efforts at judging to an end. There was more champagne, many toasts to the new couple, and several slightly teary hugs from each of the judges.

A few hours later, John and Sherlock had escorted the tipsy panel of judges out the door, with cries of “Happy Christmas!” echoing back to them. John eyed the wreckage of the kitchen, the empty glasses littered around the lounge, the tray with only a few lonely profiteroles rolling around, and collapsed on the sofa next to Sherlock.

“I think I prefer the chocolate ones over the lime,” said Sherlock, licking his fingers. “But only slightly.”

“I’m not sure I want to eat another pastry ever again,” John said. “It’s past teatime though - we ought to eat something that isn’t full of sugar and cream.”

“Mmm. Any ideas?”

“A couple. I propose that we order in and, while we wait for the delivery, you let me admire how damn gorgeous you are with these fairy lights.”

“So long as you also build a fire so I can admire your arse as you do so.”

“I agree. Then we eat, and snog on the sofa for the rest of the evening.”

Sherlock’s smile was slow and liquid and lovely, like chocolate melting. “Indian or Chinese?”

End

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The whole thing about pronouncing Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte is my mother. She's an incredibly intelligent woman but just can't get her tongue around the German language. 
> 
> Inspiration for John’s bread: https://sugargeekshow.com/recipe/focaccia-bread-art/
> 
> Black forest cake: https://www.alsothecrumbsplease.com/authentic-black-forest-cake/
> 
> How to make Croquembouche: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TOCxMM9qgSM


End file.
